


After the End of Everything

by AmyPond45



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curtain Fic, M/M, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-31 06:50:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21104741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyPond45/pseuds/AmyPond45
Summary: Michael won. He took the world down, then opened a portal to another universe and moved on, leaving Sam and Dean to pick up the pieces. After his possession, Dean is a burned-out shell with no conscious memory of anything that happened during his time as Michael’s vessel. Sam takes his broken brother on the road, and together they make their way home, hoping to find others who made it through the End of Days, hoping to find a way back to each other.





	After the End of Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [amberdreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amberdreams/pseuds/Amberdreams) for her glorious art! Be sure to [visit her post here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21084491) to give her some love! [Onlythefireborn](https://onlythefireborn.livejournal.com/profile) has my undying gratitude for her excellent help whipping this thing into shape. And, of course, thanks to the mods of this challenge for making it such a wonderful event!

//**//**//**//

_”You think you can save your brother?”_

_Michael faces Sam across a battlefield strewn with bodies. Lightning flashes overhead. Thunder rumbles. Wind whips Sam’s hair around his face, but he holds his ground, archangel blade raised in defiance. His features are contorted in rage and frustration, his face and clothes torn and bloody._

_“Give him back!” Sam shouts. “You don’t need him anymore. You’ve won! Can’t you see that? You’ve won!”_

_Michael’s full lips — Dean’s lips — curl up in a smile. Dean can feel his exultation. Dean can’t speak or move, can’t control his body at all, but Michael lets him see Sam. Michael always lets him see when he’s with Sam._

_“Oh yes, I’ve won,” Michael sneers. “This petty little world with all its fallen creatures is toast, as your brother would say. Time for me to move on to the next world, and the next, and the one after that. Time to bring it all down.”_

_Hope flickers in Sam’s expression, and Dean fears for him. Michael’s not going to let him down that easy, he’s sure._

_“Just go, then!” Sam shouts. “Get out of here! Give me back my brother! You don’t need him for that.”_

_“No, I don’t need him, that’s true,” Michael agrees. “But are you so sure you want him back, Sam? After what he’s watched me do? You think he was damaged goods before? You can’t imagine what he’s like now.”_

_“I don’t care!” Sam shouts, but Dean can see the hesitation in his eyes, the fear. “Just give him back!”_

_“Believe me, his time with me makes his tour in Hell look like Disneyland.” Michael smirks. “He’s a broken man, your brother. Not good for much anymore, if he ever was. Not much of a hero now.”_

_“Doesn’t matter,” Sam insists, shaking his head. He blinks rapidly, and Dean thinks he can see tears in Sam’s eyes. “Just let him go. Please!”_

_Sam’s tearful entreaty pleases Michael. He takes a deep breath and raises his arms in a grand gesture. The storm whipping around them quiets, thunder rumbling away into the distance, wind dying._

_“Humans used to pray to me,” he says, voice softening. “Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle, be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. Do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, cast into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl through the world seeking the ruin of souls.” He lowers his arms, smiles at Sam tenderly. “We did that, didn’t we, Sam? You and I and your brother. You and I and Dean killed my brother.”_

_“He wasn’t your brother,” Sam gasps, chest heaving. “You killed your Lucifer, your own brother. _You_ did that.”_

_“That’s right,” Michael nods. “Then you sent the demons back to Hell, and I locked the gates, didn’t I? We answered humanity’s prayer together, you and I. And I sent all the worthy souls to Heaven.”_

_Sam’s arms hang limp at his sides. His chest rises and falls, an expression of sorrow creases his high forehead. His stance is less defiant now, more defeated._

_Yet when he speaks, Sam’s voice is strong and low._

_“Let my brother go!” Sam growls, his jaw working as he spits the words out, and for a moment he looks more like the Prince of Darkness than Lucifer ever did. He’s positively majestic in his defeat._

_Michael takes a deep breath, lets it out slow. Dean knows what Michael sees when he looks at Sam. Dean sees it, too. _

_“You have both served me well,” Michael says. “You will have your brother back. Look for him where it all began, ten miles west of Ilchester, on the road to Damascus.”_

//**//**//

”Dean!”

He’s lying on the ground, staring at the sky. It’s getting dark, and the clouds look heavy. His back hurts. His throat is so dry he couldn’t make a sound if he tried. His head hurts.

He wonders where he is, but he can’t remember a thing. His mind’s a complete blank. He blinks, trying to clear his vision, trying to remember why he’s lying on the ground in a three-piece suit, but nothing comes to mind.

A shadow crosses his vision. The next second, a very tall man stands over him, blocking his view of the sky. The man looks tentative. Hopeful. Also wary, like he expects something bad to happen.

“Dean?”

The man must recognize him. That’s it. He’s Dean.

He tries to speak, but nothing comes out. His head throbs. His stomach heaves. He rolls onto his side and hurls.

“Hey, hey, okay, it’s okay, I’ve gotcha,” Tall Man murmurs as he helps Dean sit up and lean away from the mess. He massages the back of Dean’s neck and holds his arm as Dean dry-heaves a few more times. Then the man pulls a bandanna out of his back pocket and hands it to Dean.

As Dean wipes his mouth he has a sudden flashback. The Tall Man is younger. They’re sitting across from each other at a diner, and Tall Man is laughing, his dimples and white teeth on full display.

“Sammy?”

The word comes out as a croak, barely a sound at all, but Tall Man hears it. His face softens, and his eyes glisten.

“Yeah,” he murmurs approvingly. “Yeah, Dean. It’s me.”

Sam gives him a bottle of water, and Dean chugs the whole thing, then wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He looks down at the suit he’s wearing and grimaces. It’s hot and itchy and uncomfortable. Dean wants it off. Now.

“Yeah, okay, let me help you,” Sam mutters, as Dean flails and twists awkwardly.

Once he sheds the jacket and vest, Dean tries to take the dress shirt off. He pulls the shirttails out of the waistband of his pants and tears it open, popping buttons as he yanks his arms free of the offending garment.

“Whoa, whoa, take it easy,” Sam murmurs, laying a reassuring hand on Dean’s back.

Dean flinches. His back hurts.

“What the hell?”

Sam kneels behind Dean, and Dean lets him pull up the hem of his t-shirt. Cool air touches his oversensitive skin. Sam gives a low whistle.

“Wow. A lot of bruising here. He must have dropped you. Like, literally dropped you. Maybe he thought the fall would kill you.”

Sam’s fingers move gently over Dean’s skin, up over his neck and the back of Dean’s head, where the throbbing is worst.

Dean flinches away again.

“Sorry,” Sam mutters. “You’ve probably got a concussion. That would explain the vomiting. You were unconscious, probably lying here for a while before I got here...”

Dean’s working on the clasp on his trousers now, and Sam grabs his arm to stop him.

“Hey, hey, okay, listen. I get that you want to shed this skin. Believe me, I get it. But we need to get you somewhere safe, okay? Then you can change. It’s gonna be dark soon, and we need to get inside somewhere.”

Dean lets Sam help him up, guide him to the car. Another memory flashes through Dean’s brain as he gets into the passenger seat. He’s in the backseat of this car, little boy Sammy next to him. They’re running matchbox cars along the back panel under the window, making car noises. Little Sammy looks up at him, grinning, and Dean’s chest warms.

As Sam folds himself into the driver’s seat, Dean slides his hands along the bench seat and pats the dash. He looks up to find Sam gazing at him, an expression of longing and relief in his multi-colored eyes.

“That’s right, Dean,” he murmurs softly, voice cracking. “You’re home. We’re home. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

**//**//**

”Shit.”

They’ve just passed a road sign - Damascus 5 miles - and Sam’s flooring it. The gloom of early evening has given way to nightfall in the past twenty minutes, and the Impala’s headlights cast the only light onto the road in front of them. Clouds hide the moon and stars. It’s getting darker. Dean scans the horizon, where even a few moments before some light from the sunset remained, but now there’s nothing.

He thinks there should be some light somewhere, the glow of the town ahead of them, maybe, a farmhouse or gas station. They passed one not too long ago, but it was completely dark.

He looks over at Sam, sees the frown creasing his brow as he concentrates on the road ahead of them. Sam’s worried. Something’s wrong.

“Fuck!”

Dean sees them the same moment Sam does. People, maybe five of them, standing in the middle of the road, staring at the car as it barrels straight for them.

Sam slams on the brakes, turns the wheel, but it’s too late. Dean braces for impact on the dashboard, but instead the car slides to a stop, dead as a doornail.

Dean looks up, confused. The car’s headlights slice into the deep blanket of darkness thrown over the car. It’s suddenly very cold. Dean can see his breath.

“Damn it!” Sam turns the key, but the ignition won’t roll over. The starter chugs and whines as Sam turns the key again and again, then it clicks. Dead.

A face appears at the window next to Dean and Dean gasps. He’s more startled than afraid, but when more faces join the first one, fear tingles up his spine.

“Fuck!” Sam slams his hand against the steering wheel. He sees the faces, too.

Dean blinks, confused. The white faces in the window are silent, staring, empty of emotion. 

“They’re ghosts,” Sam explains, as he twists around to reach into the backseat. He grabs a bag full of salt and a couple of iron crowbars. “They only come out at night, but there’s thousands of them. They’re everywhere. Come on.”

Dean takes the crowbar Sam hands him, frowning at it in confusion.

“You swing it,” Sam explains patiently. “It stops them. Temporarily, of course.”

More faces appear at the other windows. Dean can see ghostly faces all around the car now.

“Come on,” Sam says, urgent. “I need you to cover me. I’ve got to lay a salt line all around the car, and I need your help.”

Dean blinks and grips the crowbar with both hands.

“You’re going out first,” Sam instructs. “You’ll have to clear a path for me so I can lay the salt line, okay?”

Dean raises his eyebrows and nods.

“Good. All the way around the car, back in this door, right? You’ll end up behind the wheel, and I’ll close the door. We’ll have to wait out the night in the car.”

Dean nods.

The ghosts are moaning now. At first it sounds like wind, but the sound grows louder, more pronounced. It’s the saddest thing Dean’s ever heard.

“All right.” Sam takes a deep breath, clutching the salt bag with one hand, his crowbar with the other. “On three.”

Dean puts his hand on the door handle. His heart pounds. His palms are sweaty.

“It’s okay, Dean.” Sam’s voice is calm, reassuring. “This is what we do. It’ll feel normal to you, trust me. You can do this.”

Dean’s eyes are so wide they hurt. His anxiety is giving him anxiety. But he takes some comfort from Sam’s words. He trusts Sam. As unbelievable as this situation seems, it feels familiar. Vanquishing ghosts must be in his bones, just like Sam says.

At Sam’s signal, Dean opens the door. A wave of cold, clammy air rushes in, making his eyes sting, but he doesn’t stop. He gets out and swings the crowbar at the first ghost. It dissipates in front of him, leaving behind more cold air. The moaning grows louder. It’s all around him now.

“Head around the back of the car!” Sam shouts, as he climbs out behind him.

Dean steps forward along the car, keeping her cool, comforting metal within easy reach as he takes another swing at a ghostly face.

“That’s it! Keep going!”

Sam grunts with the effort to fend off ghosts with one hand and pour salt with the other. Dean soon finds it’s easier if they move back to back around the car, swinging at ghosts as they go.

When Sam cries out, Dean whirls toward him, taking out a particularly nasty ghost that had grabbed a fistful of Sam’s hair. Dean’s operating on pure instinct and adrenaline now, letting his body go through the motions. He gets better at it, taking multiple swings as they round the hood of the car and head into the home stretch.

When he’s finally back to the passenger door, he scrambles inside and slides along the bench to give Sam room to finish the salt line before he, too, climbs into the car and slams the door.

The moaning is muffled now, and as Sam and Dean take a moment to catch their breath, they exchange glances. Dean grins. He’s euphoric with their success, the brush with danger making him want to laugh in triumph. He struggles to speak, but nothing comes out. He wants to tell Sam that he remembers, or at least his body does.

Sam nods. “It’s muscle memory,” he says, as if he can read Dean’s mind. “Your body remembers doing this, even if your conscious mind doesn’t.” He smiles. “I was kinda counting on that, actually.”

Dean takes a deep breath, nods as he lets it out. He stares out at the ghostly faces surrounding the car, just beyond the salt circle.

“It’s been like this for months,” Sam says. “Every night. They’re mostly just wandering around, lost and mindless, not really vengeful. At least, not yet. But they’ll mob up and kill you if they catch you outside after dark. They’re like ghost zombies.”

Dean looks up, shrugs his miscomprehension.

“Yeah, I know, it’s different now,” Sam says, as if Dean said something reasonable. “I figure it’s because everybody’s dead. They’re attracted to the energy of the living, but now that nobody’s left, they’re just kind of winding down, like everything else.”

Dean frowns.

“All the monsters have disappeared, too,” Sam goes on. “Vampires, werewolves, ghouls, what have you, they’re just —- gone.” He takes a deep breath, stares straight ahead out the windshield. “It’s like, without humans, there’s no food source, you know? Like what happened with the vampires in that other universe.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. He’s got no idea what Sam’s talking about, although he knows he should. Sam’s not crazy; he knew exactly what to do when the ghosts stopped and surrounded the car. That monsters are real, too, doesn’t surprise Dean as much as it probably should.

He trusts Sam.

“You don’t remember any of it, do you?” Sam asks. His voice is kind, but Dean can read the unhappiness in his tone. The sadness. Sam misses his brother, even though Dean’s right here.

Dean shakes his head, gives Sam a rueful smile. He’s sorry. He really is.

“It’s okay,” Sam says, but Dean catches the sheen of tears in his eyes. Sam reaches out and pats Dean’s chest. “Try to get some sleep, okay?”

Sam turns off the headlights. To save the battery, Dean thinks. Maybe the car will start again in the morning.

Dean hunkers down on the seat and tries to obey, but it’s a long time before he finally nods off.

In the morning, the ghosts are gone.

The car won’t start, though, and no amount of tinkering with the engine seems to do the trick. After an hour, Sam gives up, frustrated.

“We’ll come back for her,” Sam assures Dean as he gathers as much as they can carry into two duffels and a backpack.

As Dean follows Sam down the road toward Damascus, he looks back over his shoulder several times. Leaving the Impala alone in the middle of the road seems deeply and terribly wrong, although Dean doesn’t know why it should feel that way.

By the time they reach the outskirts of town, he’s openly weeping, grief like a weight crushing his chest until he can barely walk. Sam leads them into a hardware store with a smashed front door. He glances around at the broken shelves, boxes of screws and hammers scattered all over, then turns to Dean.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam assures him. “Here.” He pulls out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from his duffel. “Put these on.”

Dean unzips the black dress pants, lets them puddle around his ankles as he takes the jeans.

Sam scowls when he sees that Dean stepped out of his shoes somewhere before they reached town. He’s been walking the last two miles in stocking feet.

“Damn it, Dean,” Sam complains. “You can’t walk all the way to Kansas in bare feet!”

As Dean pulls the t-shirt over his head, he gets a flash of a young man whose permanent look of confusion makes Dean think he might have been brain-damaged. Like Dean.

He looks questioningly at Sam, who understands right away.

“It was Jack’s,” Sam says, sad and soft. “Jack was family. He’s gone now, like everybody else.”

Sam finds a pair of boots for Dean in a shoe store on the main street. He hotwires a cheap car and they’re headed west again by mid-afternoon, but Dean’s grief doesn’t begin to abate until they’ve left the Impala 100 miles behind them.

As they drive, Sam glances at Dean every once in a while, like he understands. He doesn’t mention the Impala, but Dean knows he’s feeling sad about leaving her, too.

She kept them safe, that first night, and Dean’s pretty sure that’s not the first time.

He just hopes it’s not the last.

//**//**//

They sleep in an empty motel that night, and the night after. Sam picks the locks, salts the windows and door, and collapses on one of the beds, leaving Dean to settle himself down on the other.

It always takes a long time to fall asleep. The moaning of the ghost zombies keeps him awake long after he knows he should sleep.

In the morning, they get up, eat vending machine snacks, and head out again. West. Always west.

“We should get you back to the bunker,” Sam says. “See if being someplace familiar sparks any memories.”

After three days on the road, most of it walking because the cars Sam hotwires keep breaking down, they find themselves in the food court at a mall. They’re looking for food when a shelf starts to collapse above Sam’s head.

“Sam!”

Dean doesn’t realize he’s shouted until Sam jumps out of the way, shelves collapsing around him with an overwhelming crash.

“Wow,” Sam says as he steps out of the way of the mess. “Thanks.”

They’ve been in this mall for over an hour. So far, they’ve found boxes of chips and hamburger buns, but not much else. Sam won’t let Dean open the freezers. The power’s out.

“So you got your voice back,” Sam notes.

Dean shrugs. There’s nothing wrong with his voice, he thinks, at least not after the first couple of days. He just hasn’t had anything to say. Everything is so strange.

“What happened?” he asks later, when they’re sitting at one of the tables, eating their fill. Sam found some processed cheese. They open condiment packages and spread catsup and mustard on the bread. As they eat cheese sandwiches and warm soda pop, Dean thinks he’s probably had worse.

Sam looks up from his sandwich. “What do you think happened?” he says, voice dripping with bitterness. “The world ended. Is ending. We couldn’t stop it.”

“What happened to _me_?”

His back still itches, but it’s mostly healed now, and his head only hurts when he’s thirsty.

Sam sighs. “Let’s just get back to the bunker, okay? There’s a whole library that explains everything there.”

“Why can’t I remember?”

“I don’t know, Dean.” Sam rolls his eyes. “Because you were possessed by an archangel, maybe? That can be pretty traumatizing, trust me.”

A flash of memory: Dean faces Sam in a garden behind a battered building. Sam wears a white suit. He’s holding a rose and smiling, but there’s something wrong. He’s not Sam.

“Lucifer.”

Sam frowns. “Yeah,” he nods. “What do you remember?”

Dean’s eyes grow round with shock. In the memory, he’s crying, “You. But not you.”

“Yeah,” Sam nods. “That’s what happened to you. Only with you, it was Michael. It was worse.”

“Michael.” The name should feel familiar, but it doesn’t. Sam’s possession by Lucifer feels more real. “He’s gone.”

“That’s right, Dean,” Sam nods again. “He’s gone.”

Sam doesn’t seem happy about that, although Dean’s pretty sure he’s relieved that Sam isn’t Lucifer anymore.

Dean shakes his head. Nothing could be worse than losing Sam. He’s sure of that.

“How long was I gone?”

Sam lifts his eyes, grief and loss clear as day now that Dean understands what Sam’s been through.

“Three years,” he says. His voice cracks. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and takes a swig from his Coke bottle.

Guilt crushes Dean’s chest and makes his ears ring. He left his little brother alone in this world for three years. There _is_ something worse than losing Sam. He hurt Sam. He caused Sam to suffer alone, to fight for the world and his own survival, without Dean by his side.

“I’m sorry.” It’s inadequate, but it’s all he can do. He can’t ever make it up to Sam.

Sam shakes his head, flashes Dean an annoyed glance. “It’s not your fault,” he says. “It wasn’t you.”

“It was my hands,” Dean says. “This was done by my body.”

“It didn’t have to be you,” Sam insists. “Michael would’ve found another vessel. I wish he had.”

“I was his perfect vessel.” Dean’s not sure how he knows that, but it feels right.

Sam winces, doesn’t look at him, and Dean’s flooded with shame. He’s done something terrible, just by being born.

He let Sam down.

Dean clears his throat, determined to make it up to Sam somehow. “I had a memory, when we were in the car,” he offers. “I remembered us. As kids. That’s how I knew to trust you, right away. I knew you.”

Sam clenches his jaw and looks sad. He nods once, like he already knew.

“I have flashes of memory,” he tells Sam. “When you gave me this t-shirt, I remembered Jack.”

Sam looks away, frowning, and Dean knows it’s not enough. Dean’s mind is a jumble of confused fragments. The only time he recognizes himself is when he sleeps. That’s the only time he feels comfortable in his own skin.

He hopes he’ll get better, for Sam’s sake, if not his own. But he’s starting to think that might not happen. He’s starting to think this is the way it’ll be, from now on.

He tries not to panic.

//**//**//

Dean jerks awake. He’s in the passenger seat of another hotwired car. Sam’s driving, hunched over the wheel and glaring out the windshield with that grim determination Dean now knows well.

His stomach growls.

“There’s a power bar in the glove box,” Sam says. He leans forward to look up at the sky. “It’s gonna be dark soon. We need to get inside.”

Dean eats the power bar and watches Sam’s profile. He knows he’s not supposed to. Sam’s told him to stop staring more than once, but he can’t help himself. It makes him feel better, watching Sam. 

Dean thinks he’ll never let Sam out of his sight again.

He could take his turn driving, but that would mean taking his eyes off Sam.

Sam pulls the car off the road, into the parking lot of a long, two-story motel. He parks at the room on the end.

“Stay here.”

Dean watches as Sam picks the lock on the door, steps inside for a quick look around, then ducks back out.

“All clear,” he tells Dean as he rounds the car to gather their packs from the trunk. “Let’s get inside.”

It’s warm and stuffy in the motel room. Dust and stale air fill Dean’s lungs. The room contains an old, dead TV, a small table with two chairs, a chest of drawers, and a king-size bed. They light a couple of candles before Dean helps Sam lay salt lines around the door and window. They eat in silence, watching the gathering gloom outside their little haven, the vast emptiness that is now the world they live in. The chirping of crickets grows louder as the sun sets, and Dean listens for the familiar moaning that starts as soon as darkness falls.

“Do you think we’ll find anybody alive?” he asks as the moaning starts up, right on cue.

“I don’t know.” Sam shakes his head.

“How long has it been since you saw anybody else?”

Sam sucks in a breath, looks away. “About a week ago now,” he admits. “Michael brought me to Detroit to witness his Final Judgment, as he called it. All the chosen souls went to Heaven that night. Everybody else stayed here.”

“All over the world?” Dean’s appalled and fascinated at the same time. Billions of people, all dead.

Sam shrugs. “That’s what he said. It’s not like I can confirm it, of course. Maybe when we get to the bunker something will still be working. A radio, or an old landline telephone. Cell service is out, so he must have taken down the satellites and cell towers. No power, so no Internet. I keep waiting for a nuclear power plant to melt down or a dam to give way. In the beginning, airplanes were literally falling out of the sky.”

Dean listens without comprehending. It’s too overwhelming. Dean understands that Michael destroyed the world wearing Dean as his meatsuit. Dean has dreams about it. Nightmares. He feels guilty and responsible for all of it, even if he can’t remember it.

But most of all he feels bad for letting Sam down. He should have been able to free himself and push Michael out. Sam looked up to him, had faith in him, felt as if there wasn’t anything his big brother couldn’t do.

Until now.

//**//**//

“Dean! Put that down!”

Dean jumps and drops the dirty food wrapper, shame curling through his chest, pounding in his ears. He looks up at his brother, lips trembling, fighting the urge to cry. He’s so hungry.

“Sorry, Sam.”

Sam shifts his feet, shouldering his backpack more evenly across his broad back. He looks tired, stretched thin with worry and the strain of the last few days on the road. It’s been a week since they left the mall. His clothes are dirty and worn, his greasy hair hanging in lank strands around his chiseled cheekbones. Both brothers have scraggly beards.

“Never mind,” Sam says wearily. “Let’s go. Gotta keep moving, okay?”

Dean nods and adjusts his own backpack as he turns to follow his brother out of the alley, away from the dumpster that might have had food in it once, but now doesn’t even have much of a smell anymore.

Except dust. Everything smells like dust.

There are a few abandoned cars on the main street, a few boarded-up storefronts, a lot of empty buildings with their doors hanging open, their windows smashed. Anything useful or edible has been scavenged months ago, maybe years. This town has the air of a place that hasn’t been inhabited in a long, long time.

Nevertheless, they had to look. Dean understands that they had to stop to see if anybody was still here, if anyone else is still alive anywhere. Dean remembers other people, so he knows they exist. It can’t be just he and Sam in this dead world.

“Where did everybody go?” he asks. His mouth tastes like dust, and his tongue is thick and heavy in his mouth. He’s hot and thirsty as well as hungry, but he knows better than to ask Sam for food. He knows Sam doesn’t have anything left to give him. Water, neither.

Sam sighs. Dean watches his big shoulders rise and fall, watches Sam’s face wrinkle up into that look of doubt that always makes Dean sad.

“I don’t know, Dean. Let’s not talk about it right now, okay? Let’s try to find something to drink. Then we can talk.”

Dean nods, trudging along behind as Sam leads the way out of the town and down the road. The sun beats down, making Dean’s head hurt. His feet are sore in the too-tight boots. He’s still wearing the oversized clothes Sam gave him the first day.

Dean doesn’t remember much about the Time Before. If he did, maybe Sam would be happier. Dean wishes there was something he could do, something he could say, to take that sad, anxious look off Sam’s face. But it seems like every time he tries, Sam just gets sadder.

The sun is sinking low by the time they turn up the lane of a farmhouse. Nobody’s home, so Sam picks the lock on the back door and lets them inside. There are cans of food in the cupboards, home-canned jars of peaches on the pantry shelves.

“Don’t!” Sam says sharply when Dean reaches for the door of the refrigerator.

Dean remembers the spoiled smell in the refrigerators at the mall and pulls his hand back. There’s no power. Sam already explained it to him. Any food in there is bad.

Sam tries the tap on the sink; rusty water runs out. He lets it run until the water clears.

“There must be a well,” he says as he fills a cup and hands it to Dean.

Dean drinks and drinks. He’s so thirsty.

“That’s enough,” Sam tells him after his fourth cup. “It’ll make you sick. Slow down.”

Dean watches as Sam finds a can opener and opens a can of tuna, a can of green beans, and a can of red liquid. He takes Dean’s pack off, directs him to sit at the table, then finds a plate and a spoon. Sam opens one of the jars of peaches and spoons some into a bowl while Dean watches, his mouth watering in anticipation.

“Eat slowly, okay? Don’t give yourself a stomach ache,” Sam directs, opening a package of crackers from the pantry.

Dean eats everything on his plate, drinks the tomato-flavored juice, looks up expectantly until Sam spoons out seconds.

Sam sits down across from him at the table, leaving his own pack on the floor by the door. He watches Dean eat before he takes a bite himself, then eats quickly and efficiently until his plate is empty.

“Can we stay here?” Dean asks after they’ve both eaten their fill.

Sam looks around, sighs. “Maybe,” he says.

He makes Dean stay downstairs while he goes up the stairs to the second floor, then checks out the basement. It’s getting dark by that time, so Sam finds some candles in the pantry and lights them, sets them on the table as Dean watches, hopeful.

“Yeah, I think we can stay here,” Sam says. “For tonight, anyway.”

Sam salts the windows and doors. Then they take their packs and candles upstairs. There are three bedrooms, all neat and tidy, beds still made, clothes still hanging in the closets. It’s as if the people left for vacation, instead of fleeing an apocalypse.

“You can sleep here,” Sam directs, indicating the largest bed in the largest room. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“No, Sam,” Dean shakes his head. “It’s big enough for both of us.”

Dean’s grateful that Sam didn’t suggest sleeping separately, in one of the other rooms. Sam knows Dean can’t sleep alone. Dean’s lucky to have a brother who knows him so well.

“Oh my god,” Sam exclaims softly as he tries the tap in the bathroom. “We’ve got running water here, too. I wonder...”

He leaves one of the candles in the bathroom, the other one in the bedroom, while he goes back downstairs to the basement with his flashlight. Dean waits patiently, and in a couple of minutes Sam returns, a look of wonder on his face that makes Dean’s chest grow warm.

“We’ve got hot water,” he announces, then frowns a little when he notices Dean staring. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Dean blinks, then opens his eyes wide. His cheeks grow hot. “You look so happy,” he says truthfully. Sam’s expression makes Dean happy, too. He feels happy all over, in fact.

He wishes he could take his boots off.

Sam makes an annoyed face, but he doesn’t stop smiling. “You’re right,” he says. “The prospect of taking a shower makes me happy. The prospect of _you_ getting clean makes me positively ecstatic.”

Dean thinks he’s supposed to feel offended by Sam’s comment, but he doesn’t. The way Sam’s looking at him makes him feel too good.

“Come on,” Sam says. “You first. Get undressed, and I’ll run the shower for you.”

Dean sits on the bed to pull off his boots, wiggling his toes happily when they’re finally free. He stands up to strip off his sweat-soaked, dust-covered clothes while Sam rifles around in the drawers. He pulls out a t-shirt and sweatpants, holds them up in front of himself to check the length.

“These should fit you,” he says. He looks up, blushes, and looks away when he sees Dean standing in the middle of the room, naked and waiting. Dean’s not sure what Sam’s expression means, but it makes his chest warm. Makes his dick twitch.

“Come on,” Sam mutters, leading Dean into the bathroom without looking at him again.

Dean’s sure he’s failed again. He isn’t what Sam expects, and he keeps disappointing his brother with every little thing he does. He thinks it would help if he could remember the Time Before, but he just can’t. Sam says it’s for the best, but he also gets that sad look in his eyes when he says it, and Dean’s not sure it’s really for the best at all.

He stands under the shower for a long time, letting the water cascade over his skin. It feels incredible. After about five minutes, Sam’s shadow appears on the curtain.

“Don’t forget to wash your hair, Dean,” he calls. “Use the shampoo.”

Dean picks up the bottle of shampoo from the shelf. He squeezes some into his hand and rubs it into his hair. It feels amazing. After his hair is clean, he picks up the bar of soap and washes his body, watching the water run dark and dirty at first, then soapy and clear.

“Okay, you’re done,” Sam calls a couple of minutes later. “It’s my turn.”

Dean leaves the water running, steps out of the shower, and takes the towel Sam hands to him. Sam’s naked, too, and Dean tries not to stare at Sam as his brother steps past him into the shower and slides the curtain closed.

“Dry off and get dressed, Dean,” Sam calls, and Dean scrambles to obey.

Sam’s body is too skinny, Dean thinks as he gets dressed in the sleep clothes Sam laid out for him. Sam looks like he’s not eating right. It makes Dean’s chest hurt. He needs to be a better brother. He needs to make sure Sam eats. He needs to take care of Sam.

Sam is beautiful all over, not just his face and his hands. As he pulls back the covers on the big bed, Dean thinks about Sam’s hands with their long fingers and gentle touch. The blankets are musty, but the sheets feel cool against his skin. He lies under the covers, watching the candlelight make flickering shadows on the walls, listening to the sound of the shower running. 

Thinking about Sam’s body makes his dick hard, and when he hears the shower shut off, his heart pounds.

It occurs to Dean that Sam doesn’t like to give orders. He doesn’t like to tell Dean what to do. He likes it when Dean takes charge. Sam’s had to be in charge since the beginning, after the Time Before, but he doesn’t like it. It’s not normal for him because Dean’s the big brother.

“Come to bed, Sam,” Dean demands gruffly when he sees Sam standing in the bathroom doorway, hesitating. He thinks he’s done this before, although he can’t remember. It feels familiar.

Sam has a towel wrapped around his waist, and his chest gleams in the candlelight. It makes Dean’s dick painfully hard just to look at him. Sam stands staring at Dean, and Dean wonders if he thinks Dean’s beautiful, too. Dean’s pretty sure Sam used to think so.

Then Sam shakes his head.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he mutters as he crosses to the dresser, begins rifling around for underwear.

Dead people underwear, Dean thinks. It makes him snicker. They’re both wearing dead people clothes.

Sam drops the towel when he finds a pair of shorts. He bends over as he pulls them on, and Dean sucks in a breath. Sam gives him a look. His dimples show as he shakes his head and yanks a t-shirt on over his head, covering his gleaming chest as he turns to face Dean again. The t-shirt is too small for him; it pulls across his broad chest and shoulders, shows off a slip of skin above the shorts. He crosses the room, grabs a pillow off the bed, and tosses it on the floor.

“You don’t have to do that,” Dean says, pulling back the covers in invitation. “There’s plenty of room.”

“Yeah, I do,” Sam says. “I’ll be right back.”

He leaves the room, returning after a couple of minutes with blankets from one of the other beds. He lays them on the floor where Dean can see him and reaches up to blow out the candle before settling down. His arm is long and veined. Strong.

“You’re an idiot,” Dean mumbles into the dark. He thinks he’s heard Sam say that. He has the overwhelming urge to use another slur, but he resists. He doesn’t want Sam to be mad at him.

Sam sighs. “Go to sleep, Dean.” His voice sounds weary, but maybe just a little fond, too.

Dean falls asleep to the sound of the wind rattling the shutters on the windows.

The ghosts are quiet tonight.

//**//**//

Dean wakes to the sound of rain on the roof. A wan, grey light creeps around the dusty curtains on the windows. Dean blinks, rubs the sleep from his eyes, and turns his head to look for Sam.

His brother’s already up, and Dean thinks that’s normal. Sam always gets up first. He likes to get up early to go for a run before curling himself into the confines of the car for the day’s drive.

That thought slips away before Dean’s sleepy mind can grab hold of it. It’s a memory of the Time Before, he knows that much. Not even a specific memory, just a vague impression of How Things Were Back Then. Like the way Dean’s body responded to Sam’s nakedness last night.

“Sam?”

“I’m downstairs, Dean.” Sam’s voice echoes up the stairs. “Just making us some breakfast.”

Dean pulls himself out of the warm bed. Dead people clothes are laid out for him at the foot of the bed, and they mostly fit. The jeans aren’t even baggy, and the shirt fits perfectly once he rolls up the sleeves a little. He pulls the socks on and tentatively pushes his feet into the worn, scuffed boots, hoping they won’t be too tight. When he’s able to move his toes around once they’re on, he sighs contentedly and paces the room a few times to work them in. The boots mold to his feet as if they were made for them, and it makes him happier than he can remember feeling. Ever.

In the bathroom, Dean finds a razor and does his best to shave. His hair has grown. It curls around his ears and tickles the back of his neck. When he examines his face in the mirror, he gets the impression he always kept his hair short, in the Time Before. It’s a stranger’s face that gazes back at him. Clear green eyes, pink, freshly-shaven cheeks that make his lips stand out, plush and red. He runs the water in the sink, slicks back his long hair with a comb. He studies his reflection for another moment, searching for the man he used to be, before Michael, but nothing comes to mind. He knows he’s Dean Winchester because Sam told him so, and he trusts Sam. He’s Sam’s big brother. Everything he knows about himself comes from Sam.

“Dean?”

Dean starts as Sam appears in the doorway. He didn’t even hear Sam coming up the stairs, and now his brother is looking at him with that half-concerned, half-exasperated expression he uses most often when he talks to Dean.

“Oh.” Sam raises an eyebrow as he takes in Dean’s appearance, his eyes sweeping over him from head to toe.

Dean blushes and looks away.

“You...” Sam rubs his own cheek as if he can’t find the word, as if it’s too intimate.

“I know how to use a razor, Sam,” Dean growls. “I’m not an idiot.” It feels normal to growl at Sam. It feels familiar.

“No, I know.” Sam shifts his feet. He hesitates for a moment, then adds, “You look better. More like yourself.”

Dean flinches. He doesn’t know what he looked like in the Time Before, so he can’t say. All he knows is, he doesn’t like feeling useless and incapable. He doesn’t like dragging Sam down.

“I made you some breakfast,” Sam says. His tone is softer, and when Dean looks up at him, he gives a tentative smile. Dean can’t stay angry in the face of that smile. Sam’s expression is hopeful, and Dean can’t bear the thought of quashing Sam’s hope. He depends on it too much.

He winks at his brother, hopes it’s something he used to do sometimes.

After breakfast, Sam puts on a dead man’s raincoat and heads out to have a look at the garage and the barn. Dean waits, not very patiently. Bored, he searches the house, opening closets and rifling through drawers. He looks for a long time at the faces in the photographs. Most of them are of two boys, as babies and toddlers, then as school children in sports uniforms. In the most recent picture, one of the boys is wearing a graduation gown, standing between his parents with his younger brother beside them. The older boy is tall, almost as tall as Sam. He’s a head taller than both his parents, and his little brother barely comes up to his shoulder.

The dead boy’s clothing fits Sam, Dean realizes. Dean’s wearing the father’s clothes.

When Sam gets back, he stomps his feet on the mat and shakes rainwater water off like a wet dog.

“Take your boots off, Sam,” Dean directs when he sees the mud on them. After last night’s insight, he thinks it might be something the old Dean would do, ordering and directing Sam.

Sam gives him a look but obeys, pulling off the dead guy raincoat and hanging it up before following Dean into the living room. He stands in the doorway, staring at the pictures Dean laid out on the coffee table.

Dean points. “See? The older boy was tall, like you. The dad was built like me.” He pulls out the deck of cards he found in a drawer, holds them out. “Wanna play?”

Sam’s forehead creases with doubt. He looks uncertain and tempted at the same time.

“We can’t stay here, Dean.”

“No, I know,” Dean nods. “But it’s pouring out, and I’m guessing you didn’t find a car in the garage, am I right?”

Sam’s face turns sour. “I did, but I can’t get it started. It’s deader than a doornail.”

“Okay, then, maybe we stay until it stops raining, huh? I mean, there’s food, water, beds, cards. And this.” Waggling his eyebrows, Dean pulls out the bottle of whiskey he found in a cupboard under the stairs. Sam rolls his eyes and snorts, but his dimpled grin comes back.

Dean did something right.

The truth is, he’s worried about Sam. They’ve been on the road for a couple of weeks, and Sam’s had to be the responsible one. He’s had to shoulder the burden of everything that’s happened to this world alone because Dean doesn’t remember any of it. Sam’s had to carry the burden of a damaged and broken brother who can’t even begin to be a real partner anymore.

Dean’s worried about Sam’s physical health, but he’s even more worried about his mental state.

Sam’s discouraged. He’s grieving. He’s despairing of finding anyone else alive in this world, and he fears that his brother will never be his brother again. He’s on the verge of losing it, and Dean wants more than anything to fix things. To help. He has the feeling that he used to be able to do that. He has the feeling that the old Dean could be strong and decisive because it was what Sam needed, and Dean always gave Sam what he needed.

When Sam relents and agrees to play cards and share the whiskey with him, Dean almost passes out with relief.

“Just one more day,” Sam says. “Just till the rain stops.”

Dean decides he can live with that.

//**//**//

_”I should kill you now.”_

_Michael’s got his hand around Sam’s throat, holding him down. He applies just enough pressure to keep Sam on the verge of passing out, without quite going under. Sam wheezes, tries to suck in a breath, can’t speak._

_“There would be a kind of justice in it, wouldn’t you say?” Michael goes on. “Killing this world’s perfect vessel for this world’s Lucifer. Making Dean watch.”_

_Sam struggles, but it’s useless._

_“I’m going to kill all the Sams and Deans, in all the worlds,” Michael hisses. “Two by two. And I know just how to do it. All it takes for Dean to say yes is to threaten to kill you, every time, in every world. Easy peasy.”_

_Sam’s eyelids flutter closed, and his body goes limp. Dean screams and rails, pounding against the prison of his own mind, where Michael has him locked up, able only to watch helplessly._

_Michael releases Sam’s motionless body and stands up, brushing off the front of his suit. He gazes down at Sam, giving Dean an unobstructed view of his handiwork. The work of Dean’s hands. From this vantage point Dean can see Cas’s and Jack’s bodies among those of the other hunters, strewn across the bunker floor._

_“See, Dean?” Michael murmurs as Dean rages and sobs. “It’s not so hard to kill your own brother, is it? And now, with my help, you’ve done it. You’re just like me, now.”_

__I’m nothing like you!_ Dean screams. Michael smiles and raises his hand._

_When Michael brings Sam back with a snap of his fingers, Dean gasps with relief._

_“I need you both to witness the end of the world you worked so hard to save so many times,” Michael explains before he closes the window, cutting off Dean’s view, sending him back to the blessed oblivion of Rocky’s Bar. “You’re my father’s favorite playthings, and I need you awake and present at the end of everything, when there’s nothing left to save. Maybe then my father will notice.”_

_Michael pauses, and Dean can feel his callous indifference. It makes Dean shiver._

_“Or not,” Michael adds. “I don’t really care.”_

//**//**//

Dean wakes up screaming.

There’s a warm weight holding him down, something soft tickling his nose.

“Hey, hey, Dean, you’re okay. I’ve got you,” Sam’s voice breathes into his ear, and Dean knows he’s been thrashing around like a wild animal. His arms and legs feel tired and achy, and his throat’s sore from screaming. He’s breathing hard, like he’s been running.

Sam sighs as Dean’s body relaxes under his, and Dean reorients himself. It’s dark, he’s lying in the bed in the farmhouse where they’ve been squatting for the past three days. He’s just had a nightmare, and although he doesn’t remember much of it, he thinks Sam was there. Sam was suffering.

It was a terrible dream.

The rain hasn’t let up, and Dean’s been fixing the car. He didn’t know he could do that, but when he begged Sam to let him look at it, he knew just what to do.

As Sam slides away from him on the bed, Dean reaches out, grabs handfuls of Sam’s shirt and holds on. Clings.

Sam tenses for a moment, then relents.

“Okay, okay,” Sam sighs, and Dean can feel his breath. “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. Just let me grab my pillow.”

Dean nods and takes a shaky breath. He can feel tears on his cheeks. As if he can see them in the darkness, Sam’s big, warm hand cups his cheek. His thumb brushes the tears away, and he leaves his hand there a moment, as Dean’s breathing slows.

“Okay?” Sam asks, and Dean nods. Sam sighs and lets his thumb slide down over Dean’s lips as he pulls his hand away.

Dean swallows. His dick hardens. He wishes Sam would kiss him. He knows Sam wants to. He knows Sam used to, even though he doesn’t remember. Dean’s body remembers.

Sam’s hands close over his. He gently forces Dean to let go of Sam’s shirt, pushes his hands back against Dean’s chest, and lets them go.

“Try to get some sleep, Dean,” he says softly, and all Dean can do is sigh as Sam turns onto his side, away from Dean. Sam’s back is like a wall between them.

Dean turns onto his back and stares up at the dark ceiling, listening to Sam’s breathing and the moans of the ghosts outside, until sleep overtakes him.

This time, he sleeps dreamlessly.

//**//**//

In the morning, after breakfast, Dean gets the car started. The rain has let up, and Sam’s anxious to get going. He and Sam pack the car with food, rope, salt, tools, and a gas can. It took them over a week to figure out that they didn’t need to hotwire a new car every time one ran out of gas. They could just siphon the gas out of other cars.

They each select two changes of clothes from the dead people’s closets, plus extra underwear and socks from the drawers. Dean sneaks a photograph of the two boys who lived here when they were young, the older one with his arm slung carelessly across his little brother’s shoulders.

“I’ll drive,” Sam announces as he slams the trunk.

Dean nods. It doesn’t occur to him to argue, but from the look Sam gives him, he knows that the old Dean would have protested.

They make good time on the back roads. They stay clear of the main highways, which are clogged with stalled cars. Dean thinks about the first week, when they came across a freeway ramp full of cars, some containing decayed and decaying bodies. Since then, they’ve kept out of the cities.

They drive and drive and drive.

//**//**//

.

That night, in another empty motel, Dean lies on his side of the bed and stares at the ceiling as Sam tosses and turns in an attempt to get comfortable after the long day’s drive.

“I’m sorry I’m not your brother any more,” Dean says.

Sam turns toward him on the bed, and although it’s too dark to see his face, Dean knows Sam’s looking at him. Moonlight filtered through the curtains falls on the bed between them, partly on Dean’s face. He can feel it. Sam’s hand slips into his and squeezes.

“You’ll always be my brother,” Sam says.

Dean squeezes back and holds tight when Sam starts to pull away.

“Sam? Are you ever gonna kiss me again?”

Sam sighs. He puts his free hand on Dean’s cheek, sliding his thumb along the cheekbone.

“Probably,” he admits. “But not tonight, okay? Tonight, we sleep.”

“Do you see him when you look at me?” Dean hates himself for asking, but he can’t help it.

“I see _you_ when I look at you,” Sam says. He strokes his thumb down Dean’s cheek to the edge of his mouth, takes his chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“I can get better, Sam,” Dean promises. “I can get more of my memories back, not just the flashes. I feel it. Someday I’ll be my normal self again, I promise.”

“It’s okay if you never get better,” Sam assures him. “Even if you never recover your memories, you’ll always be my Dean.”

Dean blushes, but he’s on a roll. He can’t stop himself. “I love you, Sammy. I think my old self couldn’t say that to you, and sometimes you doubted it, but I love you more than anything.”

“I know,” Sam whispers. “Now go to sleep, okay?”

“Okay.” Dean nods as Sam pats his cheek, then rolls away from him on the bed.

Dean lies still until Sam’s breaths grow deep and regular. He lets himself relax because he did that. He helped Sam fall asleep. Even if he’s not the big brother Sam knows and misses so much, he can still give Sam what he needs. He’s got enough of a brain left to figure that out.

//**//**//

The car breaks down the next day, and Dean can’t get it started again.

“The gas has gone bad,” he tells Sam. “It won’t ignite anymore.”

“Like everything else,” Sam gripes.

It’s all winding down. Everything’s ending. It’s a wonder the earth isn’t slowing to a stop. Maybe it is, and they just haven’t noticed it yet.

They walk until their legs hurt, carrying too much in their packs like before.

They bed down in a barn that night, salting the perimeter as best they can. The farmhouse is full of dead bodies. They drag the bodies out and burn them in the backyard, but the smell of death lingers.

“At least those ghosts won’t bother us,” Sam says grimly.

“Where are all the animals?” Dean asks as they lay blankets down over the loose hay in one of the stalls. The barn smells of dust and leather, but at least nothing died in here. Saddles hang suspended on wire hooks along one wall. Hay bales are stacked neatly in the corner. “Have you seen any animals in all this time?”

Sam shrugs and shakes his head. “I guess not,” he admits, as if it’s the first time he’s considered it.

“You’d think there’d be a dog. Or a horse.”

Sam shrugs again, then frowns.

“What?”

Sam rubs his grizzled cheek. “Did you shave today?”

“Yeah.” Dean shrugs. “So?”

Even in the dimming light Dean can see Sam blush. He grins nervously to hide it and looks away.

“Nothing.”

Dean files that away. It occurred to him last night that Sam likes his face clean-shaven. The old Dean was meticulous about his appearance.

They consider lighting a candle, but it’s easier just to go to sleep and get up with the light. It’s been a long, exhausting day.

As they lie down, side by side, not quite touching, Dean takes advantage of the darkness to continue their conversation from the previous night. It’s easier to talk to Sam when he can’t see his face.

“How did you know where to find me?”

“He told me,” Sam says. “At the final battle in Detroit, after he killed the last of the hunters. He said he wanted to leave us alive to witness the end. He wanted us to see the world afterwards.”

“Why?”

Sam huffs out a breath, and Dean thinks he might not get an answer. Then Sam says, “I’m not sure. At first I thought it was his way of punishing us for stopping the apocalypse the first time.”

“And now?”

Sam sighs. “Michael told us he was going to burn all of his father’s worlds. He wanted to tear them all apart. We were Chuck’s favorite characters, so he wanted to punish us to get back at God.”

Dean gropes for Sam’s hand, threads their fingers together, and squeezes. “This doesn’t feel like punishment,” he says.

Sam turns his head, stares at Dean in the dark. “We failed,” he says. “_I_ failed. I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t stop Michael. The whole fucking world died, and I couldn’t stop it.”

“We’re together,” Dean says. “That’s the important thing.”

Sam pulls his hand away, huffs out a breath. “You can say that because you don’t remember,” he says bitterly. “You didn’t watch everything end. You didn’t see all those hunters die. You don’t remember Jack and Cas and Mom and Bobby...”

“You’re right,” Dean agrees. “I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I can’t grieve. Especially since it was my hands that did all that killing.”

“I already told you, it wasn’t you,” Sam insists.

“He let me watch sometimes,” Dean says.

Sam turns sharply towards Dean, propping himself up on one elbow.

“You remember?”

Dean shakes his head. “Not really. I had a dream where I was — where I — and you — “ He swallows thickly, fighting back tears. “In the dream, he let me watch while he did terrible things. I think — I think it was real.”

“Dean.”

“I’m real sorry I did those things, Sam,” Dean says, blinking up at Sam in the darkness. He can’t see his face, but he knows Sam’s gazing down at him. “I’m sorry about Mom and Jack and Bobby and all those hunters. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I’m broken, and can’t be your partner anymore.”

“Shhh.” Sam’s warm hand cups his face. His thumb swipes away Dean’s tears. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Dean. You’re still my partner, okay? You’ll always be my best friend. You’re gonna get better. Or maybe you won’t, but either way, you’re still the best thing in my life. Okay? The best thing.”

Dean weeps silently, chest heaving with grief he doesn’t even understand. He can recall the Dean from his dream, railing against Michael as Michael kills the people he loves, and although the grief that dream-Dean feels is intense and immediate, it’s also removed from waking-Dean’s emotional life. It’s like experiencing those feelings through a curtain, or a wall made of dark glass.

But the grief that Dean feels because he’s failed Sam is real. It’s overwhelming. It’s more than he can handle.

Sam gathers him close, soothes and rocks him in his long arms, lets Dean cry against his chest with his chin tucked on top of Dean’s head. Dean clings to Sam’s t-shirt, soaks it with his tears as Sam strokes Dean’s back. He falls asleep that way, cradled in Sam’s arms, face pressed against Sam’s chest, listening to the comforting beat of his heart.

It’s the only place he ever wants to be.

//**//**//

It takes three more days to reach the bunker.

They try to start every car they come across, but even with Dean’s recovered mechanical ability, the cars won’t start. The gas is too old.

“None of it makes any sense,” Sam says in that way that he does these days, just talking out loud to Dean as if Dean might have the answers. “What about nuclear power plants? Wouldn’t they melt down without power by now? Why haven’t missiles fired all over the world? Why don’t things explode?”

Dean doesn’t try to answer. Sam doesn’t really expect him to. He understands what’s happened even less than Sam does, and he doesn’t remember enough about the Time Before to guess.

“It’s like the whole world’s got a wet blanket on it,” Sam goes on.

“Maybe it’s the ghosts,” Dean suggests, thinking about that first night, when the ghosts surrounded and killed the car. The Impala.

His Baby.

Dean’s sure he used to think of her that way, as his Baby. It’s still the saddest thing that’s happened since he awoke in this world. Leaving Baby.

“What are you talking about?” At least Sam’s curious. At least he’s not just blowing Dean off, the way he did so much the first week, after Dean recovered his speech and could confirm how little he remembered, how really useless he was.

“Well, they drain the energy from things, like they did to my Baby,” he says.

Sam gives him a sharp look. “You remember the car,” he accuses.

“You already knew that,” Dean insists. “And it’s just sense memories and flashes, like looking at old movies with the sound off. I told you about that.”

“Yeah, you did,” Sam admits.

“So what if the ghosts are like a dampening field that drains all the energy out of everything? Including people?”

Sam stares at him. They’re walking shoulder to shoulder along the same road they’ve been walking for nearly three days, carrying their backpacks. The day is cloudy, as usual, but at least it’s cool, better for walking than it was a couple of weeks ago.

Sometimes Dean wonders if the sun has gone out, it’s been so long since he’s seen it.

“You think that up all by yourself?” Sam asks, and Dean can’t tell whether he’s making fun of him or not.

Dean shrugs. “It’s just a thought,” he says. “Did I say something wrong?”

Sam flushes, looks away. “No, no,” he mumbles. “It’s just that you used to come up with crazy ideas all the time. I used to depend on you to do that.”

“So I used to be crazy?” Dean raises his eyebrows, still wondering if he should feel insulted.

“No! I mean, not crazy, exactly, just coming up with stuff other people would never think of. I always thought of it as a talent. You had good instincts.”

“Sounds like something that might have been helpful in our line of work,” Dean suggests.

Sam gives him a speculative look which softens into a fond smile. “Yeah, it was, actually,” he agrees.

Dean wants to keep Sam smiling. “Maybe some of my natural abilities are coming back to me,” he suggests. “Like fixing cars.”

“Maybe they are,” Sam breathes, and Dean tries not to read too much into Sam’s quick glances, the way their shoulders bump companionably as they walk.

Dean thinks he could get used to this, traveling with Sam.

//**//**//

The night before they reach the bunker, they hunker down in an empty house that has two bicycles in the basement.

“Why didn’t we think of this before?” Sam asks as they stare at the bikes, flashlights revealing perfectly good tires and a hand-pump nearby in case they need it. “We must have passed a hundred bikes on our way here.”

Dean frowns. “Do I know how to ride a bike?”

“Yes, you do,” Sam assures him. “Muscle memory, remember? It’ll come back to you as soon as you get on it.”

They share a can of beans and another can of chicken soup, all that’s left in their packs. The pantry shelves are empty, the house obviously ransacked in the past.

“There’s food in the bunker,” Sam says. “Or at least there was when I left.”

They take turns cleaning up with water from the old hand-cranked well in the backyard, heating the water on the wood stove in the kitchen so they can shave. The house has none of the modern conveniences — no refrigerator or dishwasher, no washing machine or dryer.

“These people lived simple,” Sam notes as he lights the kerosene lamp on the desk in the bedroom. The flame flickers, and for a moment Dean’s afraid it will go out. Kerosene must be losing its ability to ignite, just like gasoline. But then the lamp flares, and the flame grows strong, sending a warm light into the room and casting soft shadows in the corners.

Sam finds a book on the big bookshelf in the living room and sits down at the desk to read. Dean watches him for a few minutes, restless and bored. He thinks his old self would’ve hated reading unless he absolutely had to do it. He’s got too much energy. But he loves watching Sam read, his brow furrowed in concentration, his big body hunched in the chair, the book small and fragile in his huge hands.

Dean strips down to his shorts, takes his t-shirt off. It’s a little too cool, but the air feels good on his skin, makes his nipples pebble. He slides into the bed, pulling the blanket up to his waist, and watches Sam, one arm bent behind his head.

For several minutes nothing happens. The ghosts are quiet tonight, and the only sound other than crickets chirping is the occasional crack of the house settling down for the night. Sam’s profile is bathed in lamplight, the shadows under his cheekbones and eyes giving his face an unearthly beauty that takes Dean’s breath away.

His dick chubs up of its own accord under the blanket. It occurs to him that he hasn’t jerked off in days. Watching Sam’s face for signs of movement, he carefully slides his right hand under the covers. Maybe he can get his dick to settle down if he presses on it hard enough.

Unfortunately, touching it has the opposite effect. His breath hitches as his dick hardens almost painfully at his touch, even through his shorts, and when his eyes fly open once he’s got it under control again, Sam’s staring at him.

“What are you doing, Dean?”

Dean clenches his teeth and decides to go for broke. “What does it look like?”

“Oh my God, can you do that in the bathroom?” Sam’s expression is part annoyed, part embarrassed. His cheeks flush as he looks away.

“Why?” Dean asks, and when Sam’s eyes widen, Dean lets his hand slip down to cup his balls. “You’re here.”

Sam flushes a deeper shade of pink. He ducks his head, long hair brushing over his cheek as his dimples pop out. He bites his lower lip to keep from grinning, and Dean catches a glimpse of his tongue.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Dean breathes, dragging his hand over the head of his dick. “Come on, Sammy. Let me watch you.”

“Jesus, Dean.” Sam takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “You’re so _you_ sometimes.”

“Did I do this before?” Dean asks, taking his dick in hand through his shorts and jacking it slowly. “Did I lie on the bed and watch you read and jerk off? Did I? Cuz I think I did, Sammy. I think I did this a lot.”

Sam’s eyes drop to Dean’s dick, tenting under the blanket, and he shakes his head as his grin breaks out uncontrolled, splitting his face open gloriously.

“You were always an exhibitionist,” Sam says. “You used to bring girls home and leave the door open so I could watch. You _wanted_ me to watch.”

Dean can’t believe he was ever such a dick as that, but then he remembers: they’re brothers. There was probably a time _before_ they were lovers. Maybe there was even a time before Dean could admit how much he wanted Sam. That makes sense to Dean, actually. It’s of a piece with the strong protective instincts he feels where Sam’s concerned. He’d never do anything to hurt Sam.

“Wanted you so bad, Sammy,” Dean gasps as he jacks himself. “But you were so young. I never would’ve done anything you couldn’t consent to. I felt like such a monster for wanting you.”

“You were so beautiful, Dean,” Sam says. His voice is shaky, and when he looks up, his eyes are dark. “I always loved you. I always looked up to you. Anything you did was all right in my book. I wanted to be just like you. I wanted to _be_ you.”

“We never talked about it, this thing between us. Not when it started, once you were of age. Not when we finally went on the road together.”

“Yeah,” Sam frowns, puts the book down. “How did you know that?”

“You’re the only one I ever wanted, Sam,” Dean gasps. He’s almost there. He closes his eyes and grips his dick to keep from coming too soon, but it’s too late. “Nobody else ever mattered that much to me. Just you. Fuck!”

Spots of light explode under his closed eyelids as he comes. When he’s aware again, he’s breathing hard, and his shorts and hand are soaked. He opens his eyes to find Sam gazing at him, his eyes still dark and hooded, the book discarded on the desk next to him.

“I was afraid,” Dean whispers. “If you found out, you’d leave.”

“I’d never leave you, Dean,” Sam says, soft and intent, like he’s talking to that other Dean. “No matter what happens, I’ll never do that. I promise.”

Dean nods, drifts off to sleep without a care in the world. He’s vaguely aware of Sam going back into the kitchen to fetch a washcloth, feels the bed dip as Sam peels off Dean’s ruined shorts and cleans him off, then tucks him back in.

Just before oblivion overtakes him, Dean feels Sam’s lips press soft against his cheek.

//**//**//

Sam and Dean bike into Lebanon the following afternoon. It’s another cloudy day, rain threatening but still holding off.

“I wonder if God’s still watching us,” he says idly. Sam told him about how they were God’s puppets, how he set them up and refused to step in when the chips were down. “I mean, God can control the weather if he wants, right? Seems like we’ve been lucky these past few days. Like he wants us to get here.”

“That’s just stupid,” Sam says.

They’re walking their bikes down Main Street, looking for life, and Dean’s nervous. They’re getting close to the bunker, this place that the Winchesters have called home for the past seven years, and he’s not sure how he feels about that. The Impala still feels like their home. He’s wondering when they’ll get back to her.

“Why?”

“God, Dean, you’re like a toddler,” Sam complains.

“Why?”

“Because you keep demanding answers to impossible questions!” Sam looks pissed, so Dean grins. It seems to be the correct response.

They stop at the weird little park just outside town. Dean investigates the chapel and the sign that marks the geographic center of the contiguous United States.

“The American Men of Letters chose this spot because of its magical properties, all the energy centered here,” Sam explains.

Dean thinks for a moment as he stares at the monument. “But it’s not,” he says. “The center of the continent would be somewhere north of here, wouldn’t it? Like in North Dakota or something.”

Sam shakes his head. “Don’t ask me,” he says. “The bunker was also supposed to be warded against anything supernatural, but you wouldn’t believe the number of supernatural visitors and lodgers we’ve had over the years, God included.”

The road to the bunker is mostly flat, so they bike out the last few miles to the site of the original marker, the place where surveyors reported the first geographic center in 1878, before the park and monument were built closer to town in 1918. By that time, the original marker was on what was private property, and the pig farmer who owned it did not take kindly to the idea.

“It’s a power plant?” Dean gazes up at the structure as they approach it on the little back road, the one no one would even notice from the main road if they didn’t know where to turn.

“Yeah,” Sam nods. “It sits on an underground river. That’s what gives the bunker its power.”

“Huh.”

They lean their bikes against the entrance railing. Sam pulls the key from his pocket and leads the way down the stairs to the front door. As Dean follows Sam through the door, he’s overwhelmed by a feeling of déjà vu. Nothing specific, just the sense of having done this before.

“Wow,” he says as he steps out onto the landing above the stairs that lead into the large entry chamber below. “This is so familiar.”

“It should be,” Sam agrees, descending the stairs ahead of him. “We lived here for over six years, before Michael.”

Dean follows Sam down the stairs, across the entry hall and into the library.

“You getting any memories?”

Sam asks the question casually, but Dean knows how much it means to him, so he shrugs.

“Maybe,” he says.

A stabbing pain shoots through his temple. It’s gone almost as soon as it comes, but Dean’s left with a horrible impression of death and grief, right here in this room.

“Dean?”

Sam’s hands on his back and his bicep keep him upright, but just barely. The memory doesn’t feel like his, exactly, but it’s vivid. Grisly.

“Yeah,” Dean gasps, voice shaking. “The bodies...What did you do with the bodies?”

Sam takes a deep breath. “I burned them,” he says. “Out back.”

Dean frowns. “All of them? All by yourself?”

Sam’s jaw tightens, and Dean can see his determination not to break down, not to accuse Dean of causing those deaths, possessed or not. He won’t let Dean feel guilty for not being there, for making Sam face his grief alone.

“Yeah.”

“Mom and Jack,” Dean gasps. “Cas. Rowena... all those hunters...” He looks up at Sam, tears filling his eyes. “How can you stand to come back here?”

Sam’s jaw works. His eyes fill, and his grip on Dean tightens. “I thought it might help you remember,” he says. “Not _that_. I didn’t mean for you to remember that. We lived here, for years. This was our home. We’re Men of Letters legacies.”

Dean sucks in a breath and steadies himself against the table. “I thought you said we were hunters.”

“We were,” Sam says. He starts to say something else, then checks himself. “We were.”

“I guess we’re not hunters anymore?” Dean suggests. “No more monsters to hunt or people to save?”

Sam nods shortly, jaw clenched. He doesn’t look at Dean, flinches as his gaze sweeps the room. “Come on.”

He leads Dean into the kitchen. The shelves are stocked with food in cans and jars and paper boxes, although the icebox is empty except for a six-pack of beer.

“We usually stop in town for milk and eggs on our way home,” Sam explains. He turns on the tap, runs water till it comes out clear. “This place was designed to survive a World War.”

Dean has a good feeling about this room. Nobody died in here.

Similarly, Dean gets good vibes from the bedrooms, the communal bathroom with multiple showers and sinks, and the shooting range.

When he finds the garage, he’s in Heaven. Then he remembers the Impala and a wave of profound sadness washes over him.

It’s hours later when Dean climbs the stairs and finds his way to the kitchen, searching for food.

Sam sits at the table, working on something on his laptop.

Dean does a double take. “You found the Internet?”

Sam had explained to him about how the ‘net went dark one night, months ago, shortly after the power went out. Even with batteries, there wasn’t anything to connect to. All the servers were down. Satellites must have crashed. There’s been no communication since.

“No, no,” Sam mutters. He seems distracted, and he doesn’t look at Dean. “It’s just a spell I know. It boosts the signal so I can reach whoever’s out there. There must be an old server in a government facility that’s still operating on back-up power. Those things were built to survive nuclear war.”

“A spell, huh?” Dean frowns. He’s not sure why, but the thought of Sam doing magic makes him uneasy. “I thought we were the good guys.”

Sam shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t look up. “We _are_ the good guys,” he assures Dean. “Or at least, we used to be. Now, I guess not so much.”

Dean can hear the despair in Sam’s voice. He’s been hearing it too much lately.

He bangs around in the cupboards until he finds some cans of chili, opens them, and tosses the contents into a big pan on the stove.

“So, any luck?” Dean stirs the chili slowly, marveling at the fact that the stove still works. The place is self-sustaining, which feels like a miracle after their weeks roughing it on the road.

Sam shakes his head. “No. Nothing but old, stagnant sites that are somehow still operating. Probably from somebody’s mobile home with a generator, or a university basement somewhere that still has its own power. The Library of Congress is still up, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Well, at least we won’t run out of books to read,” Dean jokes.

Sam lifts tired eyes and tries to smile. “You hate reading.”

“No, I don’t,” Dean balks. “I just like doing things more. I’m a man of action. I think.”

Sam gives him a genuine smile, and Dean smirks. He scored again. 

“Yeah, you are,” Sam agrees, real fondness in his tone. His nose wrinkles appreciatively. “That smells good.”

“It’s got 100 percent pure beef,” Dean notes, quoting the can label. “Plus special spices. Sure to put some meat on your skinny ass.”

Sam frowns, insulted. “My ass isn’t...Never mind.”

Dean smirks again as Sam’s face grows red. He’s batting a thousand today.

“I get the feeling I’ve been feeding you all our lives,” he suggests. “This feels totally normal.”

Sam blinks and nods. “Yeah, it does.”

Dean spoons chili into bowls for them, cracks open a couple of beers from the fridge, and sits down across from Sam. Their knees knock companionably under the table, and Dean raises his beer in salute.

“To home,” he says.

Sam huffs out a breath and shakes his head. “You always called this place home,” he notes. “To me, it’s just a place that has a few things we need.”

“Like food,” Dean agrees. “Showers. A place to sleep. A garage. For you, lots of books. It’s got everything we need. Sounds like a good home to me.”

“I _need_ my brother back,” Sam says. He says it softly, and when Dean gives him a sharp look, guilt piercing his gut, Sam blushes. “Sorry.”

Sam’s needs come first. They always have. Dean knows this better than he knows his own face, his own name. It’s ingrained in him, so deep for so long, he doesn’t even think about it. Doesn’t have to remember anything to know that one basic, core principle of Dean’s existence.

“We’ll figure it out,” he tells Sam. “You hear me? I may not remember things, but I’m getting better at being me again. Right? You said so yourself.”

Sam swallows, blinks, and nods. “Yeah, you are,” he agrees.

“So where’s this written history of our lives, huh? All this time you kept telling me all the answers were here, that there’s some kind of published book series about us?”

“Yeah,” Sam sighs, shaking his head. “I’ll show you.”

While Sam digs up the box of books, Dean finds his old bedroom. He knows its his because the walls are covered in weapons. There’s a record player with classic rock vinyl LPs in a box, and another box of vintage porn. The clothes in the drawers are his, and a pair of boots next to the bed look like they would fit him perfectly.

He decides to take a shower and change into his old clothes. When he joins Sam in the library he feels better.

He knows he looks better because Sam does a double-take, and his cheeks turn pink.

“Hey.” Dean smirks and saunters over to the table, keeping his voice deliberately low. Soothing. Or maybe a little sultry. Yeah, definitely going for the smolder. “What’ve you got for me, Sammy?”

Sam flushes even pinker, which tells Dean that Sam’s used to Dean making not-so-subtle double entendres. Dean could get used to this. Getting a rise out of Sam makes Dean feel like a winner. Makes him feel even better than he did a moment before.

“It’s the books I told you about,” Sam snaps, deliberately not looking at Dean again. “The ones Chuck wrote about our lives. Knock yourself out.” He starts to leave the room.

Dean panics.

“Hey.” He grabs Sam’s arm. Sam stops, looks down at Dean’s hand, then up at his face, and Dean sucks in a breath. Sam’s expression is that combination of grief and longing that Dean’s used to seeing, masked by Sam’s determination to survive yet another disappointment. It makes Dean want to cry.

Sam is steeling himself for the very real possibility that Dean may never fully recover. Until this moment, Dean hadn’t realized how much Sam had counted on getting him into the bunker as a way to jog Dean’s memory. The fact that being here hasn’t cured Dean’s amnesia makes Sam doubt that Dean will ever recover.

Sam’s bicep flexes under Dean’s hand, and Dean drops his hold. Sam doesn’t want Dean’s touch. He misses his brother too much.

Dean’s deeply in love with this sensitive, sad man who lets Dean see his strength and his vulnerability because Dean looks like the brother he lost. Dean will do anything to get Sam’s brother back. He’ll do anything to fix things.

He backs away from Sam and reaches for the box.

“I’ll just be in my room, reading about myself,” he says with a wink. He thinks the old Dean would do that. Sam’s brother would try to find a way to laugh off the sad stuff, to keep Sam from falling into another well of sadness and longing.

Dean tucks the box under his arm and turns away, conscious of Sam’s eyes on his backside as he leaves the room.

Maybe all’s not lost after all.

//**//**//

Hours later, Sam knocks lightly on his door. Dean startles, jerks his head up out of Salvation, and clears his throat.

“Yeah. Uh, come in.”

As soon as the door opens, Dean blushes. He’s been reading about Sam and that other Dean for hours, and he’s more in love with Sam than ever. Reading these books isn’t bringing back any memories, but it’s sure making him emotional.

And horny.

“Thought you might be hungry.”

Sam’s got a sandwich on a plate, and Dean’s stomach rumbles just looking at it. Sam smiles softly as he sets the plate down, opens one of the beers he brought, and hands it to Dean.

“Thanks.”

Dean lays the book over his lap, trying not to be obvious about hiding his boner, but Sam notices anyway. He stands over Dean, making Dean feel young and vulnerable, like he imagines he used to feel when their father tucked him into bed at night.

“So.” Sam opens his own beer and tosses the cap into the wastebasket next to the desk. Dean’s impressed. “Anything? Does anything seem familiar to you?”

_You,_ Dean thinks. _Just you._

“Uh, yeah, kind of,” Dean lies. He needs to make Sam happy. He can’t bear to disappoint him. “We really killed a lot of monsters.”

“Yeah, we did,” Sam agrees. “Those books only cover the first couple of years or so, but we were a good team.”

“We need to go back for Baby.” As soon as the words slip out, Dean knows he’s said the right thing. Sam visibly brightens.

“Yeah, about that. I’ve been doing some research - I think I’ve found a spell we can use to keep gasoline fresh.”

“Yeah?” Dean sits up on the bed, and Sam steps back, lets Dean swing his legs off the bed and stand up. “What are we waiting for?”

“Whoa, whoa!” Sam backs up, puts a hand up, palm out. “It’s the middle of the night, Dean, in case you hadn’t noticed. You’ve been reading for six hours straight.”

“So, we start in the morning. After breakfast.” Dean reaches for the sandwich and takes a bite, chewing with his mouth open on instinct.

“Oh my God.” Sam makes a face. “Okay. Just, get some rest now, okay? We’ve got some serious driving ahead of us tomorrow.”

Dean tries not to palm his dick after Sam leaves the room, but it’s hopeless. He doesn’t even care if Sam can hear the noises he makes as he jerks off.

Truth be told, he hopes he does.

He suspects his old self would approve.

//**//**//

They get a late start the next morning because Dean can’t get out of bed until almost noon.

They fill five gas cans with be-spelled gasoline and load them in the trunk of one of the old classic cars in the garage, along with a big bag of salt and a couple of extra crowbars, in case they get caught out in the open at night again. Sam packs a couple of shotguns loaded with rock salt, as well. They pack enough clothes and food for a six-day ride. If it takes longer than that to bring Baby home, they’re fucked anyway.

Sam brings ingredients for the spell, enough to perform it five times if necessary.

Dean’s grateful that Sam’s so thorough. It would suck to have come so far, only to be eaten by ghost zombies.

His old self wasn’t much of an optimist.

Dean drives. Sam doesn’t say much when he slips into the driver’s seat and shoves the key into the ignition. After all, Dean got the car running, didn’t he? In the books, Dean always drove.

As they head east on the highway, Dean rolls the window down, lets the wind bring the smell of cornfields into the car. It’s still late summer, not even a hint of chill in the air yet, but the days are getting shorter. They won’t have enough daylight to make it very far the first day.

Dean can feel Sam looking at him. He’s got a roadmap open over his lap, his own window rolled down, and the wind whips his long hair around his angular face. Dean hopes Sam likes what he sees. He can’t take his eyes off the road long enough to return Sam’s long looks, but they bring a smile to his lips.

Sam likes it when Dean drives.

They stop for the night at a roadside motel. It’s not the same one they stayed at coming in, but they’ve made good time on the backroads and are already outside Hannibal, Missouri.

Dean tries his hand at lock-picking while Sam checks the motel office for food. Dean’s got the door open and their gear unloaded by the time Sam returns with a bag full of vending machine snacks. He gives Sam a triumphant grin.

Sam rolls his eyes, but Dean can tell he’s really impressed.

“Muscle memory,” Dean says. “Just like you said. It’s like riding a bicycle. Or fixing a car.”

Sam shakes his head, pulls water bottles out of the bag, and tosses one to Dean.

As Sam salts the windows and door, Dean cleans up in the bathroom using the bottled water. He’s hoping they can make it back to the farmhouse in Illinois tomorrow so they can shower. The bunker has already spoiled him. He doesn’t like to go to bed grimy and sweaty, but on the road they don’t have much choice.

He’s jealous of the old Sam and Dean. Their motels always had running water and toilets that worked. They always found a diner with a hot meal.

“I don’t know why I used to complain about the motels and the diners,” he says, pulling back the sheets on one of the beds. “Brushing your teeth with bottled water, eating vending machine snacks for dinner... Now _this_ is something to complain about.”

He’s stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers, and Sam’s done the same. Sam sits up in his own bed with a flashlight, reading one of the books he brought from the bunker,

“It could be worse,” Sam says with a shrug. He doesn’t look up, but Dean gets a good vibe off him. Sam’s happy. Or maybe ‘happy’ is too strong a word. Sam’s content. That’s it.

Maybe it’s temporary. Maybe Sam will go back to his brooding, grieving self tomorrow. But for tonight, he seems good.

Dean will definitely take that as a win.

He falls asleep to the mournful moans of a thousand ghosts, and for the first time, it doesn’t bother him.

//**//**//

They spend the next morning siphoning gas to fill their empty gas cans. Sam spells the gas before they fill the tank of a small Honda, which gets much better gas mileage than the old jalopy they drove out of the bunker.

Dean watches as Sam does the spell. He can feel the power roll off Sam in waves. It’s a little frightening. He knows his old self worried about Sam’s visions and psychic abilities, and he gets that, but this is something else. Something darker, maybe. Definitely more powerful. More focused.

Once they’re on the road again, Dean can’t help asking.

“So, you used your psychic thing while I was gone?”

Sam’s jaw clenches, and at first Dean thinks he won’t answer.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I did. I was trying to find you. Then trying to get Michael to let you go. So yeah. I did whatever it took.”

Dean nods. He thinks his old self might have yelled at Sam, all freaked out and angry, warned him about going darkside.

“So it worked,” he suggests instead. “You saved me.”

Sam huffs out a breath and shakes his head. “The fuckin’ world ended, Dean,” he says bitterly. “I didn’t save anybody.”

”Pretty sure that’s not true, Sam,” Dean says. “Pretty sure I wouldn’t be sitting here, if it wasn’t for you.”

Sam scoffs. He turns his gaze on the landscape outside the window, and they ride in silence for a few minutes. Then Sam shakes his head.

“You used to say we should stop doing this,” Sam says.

“Doing what?”

“Putting each other before everything else. Letting the world end, or almost end, as long as we could save each other.”

Dean thinks about this for a hot second, then shakes his head.

“Pretty sure I lied if I said that,” he says with conviction. He can feel how true that is. Now that he’s read those books about their lives, he’s confirmed in his gut that he has never put anything before Sam. He never would. Ever. “That sounds more like something _you_ would say.”

Losing Sam has always been Dean’s greatest fear. He feels that in his gut, too.

Sam scoffs again. “Yeah. Right.”

“Doesn’t matter anymore anyway,” Dean says. “That’s all behind us now.”

He feels Sam’s eyes on him, studying him.

“What do we do?”

Sam’s voice sounds so young, so hopeful, it makes Dean’s chest hurt. He sounds like a little boy who looks up to his big brother and just wants his reassurance. Sam needs his big brother to tell him everything’s going to be okay.

Dean takes a big breath, lets it out slow. It feels so important to give Sam what he wants. That need trumps any insecurities Dean has about filling the shoes of his old self. It has to.

“We get Baby,” he says, making his voice deliberately gruff and deep. “We drive back to the bunker, and we retire. Plant a little garden so you can have some of those vegetables you love so much. We take foraging missions out west, down south, up north, see if we can find anybody alive. See if we can find some goddamn beef before we run out of canned tuna.”

Sam’s face breaks into a grin as he shakes his head, and Dean’s triumphant. His heart soars in his chest as he takes in his brother’s dimpled cheeks, his white teeth and perfect nose. When Sam’s eyes meet his, Dean almost runs off the road.

“Whoa, there,” he mutters as he turns his eyes front again and steadies the car. Sam jostles next to him and their arms press together for a moment before Sam leans away again.

The contact felt so good. Dean knows Sam felt it, too.

“Okay,” Sam breathes. Dean glances at him again and sucks in a breath. Sam’s blushing. Damn.

“Sounds good, huh?”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, still grinning. “Yeah.”

“All right then,” Dean nods. “That’s what we’ll do.”

//**//**//

They find Baby exactly where they left her. They’ve been stopping next to every car they find, siphoning gas for their gas cans, but even so, Baby will need at least two or three fill-ups to make it back to the bunker.

It feels like years since they walked away from her, even though it’s only been a month at most. Dean runs his hands over her dusty hood, up over her roof while Sam works the spell so that the gas in her tank will ignite. He looks up and blushes when he catches Dean caressing Baby’s chassis.

“Get a room, you two,” he mutters, half amused, half annoyed. Dean’s pretty sure he’s said it before.

Dean’s pretty sure he loves this car. He thinks Sam loves it, too.

He’s having flashbacks of himself and Sam, driving through the night in the rain, down a back-country road between cornfields, curled around each other in the backseat as children while their dad drives. It’s almost too much. He’s not sure how much is real memory, how much sheer imagination, but he knows the feelings are real.

When Sam finishes his spell, Dean grabs him, pushes him up against the side of the car, and kisses him. Sam stiffens at first, then goes all soft and willing. When Dean steps back, lets Sam go, Sam gazes at him hopefully, breathing hard, lips pink and slick.

“Dean?”

“More flashbacks, I think,” Dean shrugs. “Pretty sure I’ve done that before.”

“You have,” Sam nods, gaze dropping to Dean’s mouth.

It’s Dean’s turn to be grabbed, pushed up against the car, and kissed hard. Sam’s a beast when he lets himself give in to his urges, just as Dean knew he would be. His mouth bruises and bites at Dean’s. His big hands grab Dean’s biceps, his waist, his ass.

Dean gives as good as he gets, rolls them along the side of the car till he’s on top again, thrusts his thigh between Sam’s legs.

“I could fuck you right here,” Dean breathes as he kisses and nips his way down Sam’s jaw to his neck. “I’ve done that before, haven’t I? Fucked you on the hood of the car.”

“Yeah,” Sam gasps. He throws his head back and closes his eyes as Dean gropes his chest. He holds on for dear life as Dean massages Sam’s erection through his jeans.

“It’s been too long, Sam.”

Dean drops to his knees before Sam can protest. They work together to unbuckle Sam’s belt, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans while Dean rubs his face against Sam’s crotch and breathes deep. When Dean pushes Sam’s jeans aside, he mouths along the length of Sam’s cock through his boxers as Sam gasps and writhes. He makes the most delicious cutoff moans and little cries of “oh oh oh” as Dean peels the boxers down and gets his mouth on bare skin. Sam pats his head with shaky hands as Dean takes the head of Sam’s cock between his lips, tongues the slit and the sensitive underside, and sucks on the velvety skin.

Giving head isn’t something Dean remembers doing, but he knows for a fact that his old self had been giving Sam everything and anything for as long as he could remember. He’s sure he’s done this before.

As he opens his throat to suck Sam down, past his gag reflex, he breathes in through his nose. He can’t take all of Sam’s length — Sam’s seriously huge — but he manages a lot of it. He wraps his fist around the base, holds onto Sam’s hip with his other hand, and blinks up at Sam through tear-blind eyes.

Sam stares down at him, pupils blown, mouth slack, cheeks flushed pink. He sucks in a gasp when his eyes meet Dean’s.

“Dean,” he whispers, and it sounds like a swear, the way another man might say, “Fuck.”

Dean pulls off halfway, then swallows Sam down again, sliding his hand under Sam’s boxers till his fingers find Sam’s bare ass.

“Dean!” Sam’s eyes flutter closed, and his whole body shudders as Dean touches his hole. His head goes back, exposing his long neck, his chest a solid wall of muscle under his t-shirt.

Dean pushes the tip of his finger past the tight rim of Sam’s hole, and Sam cries out, thrusting blindly into Dean’s mouth, coming so hard and so unexpectedly that Dean can’t possibly swallow it all. He does his best, but he can feel Sam’s come dribbling down his chin. As he pulls off, he rubs his face over Sam’s still-pulsing cock, making a mess of himself for the sheer pleasure of it.

Panting, Sam gazes down at him, lips parted, chest heaving. He runs his thumb over Dean’s lips, pushing it inside so Dean can suck on it as Sam wipes tears and come from his cheek with his other thumb.

“God, Dean. Damn.”

Dean shakes loose from Sam’s hands and rises to his feet. He wipes his face with the hem of Sam’s t-shirt, then pulls Sam’s face down, crowds in and kisses him, good and thorough.

“Come on,” he growls as he pushes away again, pulls the front passenger door open. “Gonna get you to the first motel we find so I can fuck your brains out.”

“Okay.” Sam’s voice is a shaky whisper, his whole body loose and trembling. Dean folds him into the passenger seat, protective hand on his head to keep it from hitting the roof, then he strides quickly around the car and gets into the driver’s seat.

The key is still in the ignition. As the Impala roars to life, Dean puts his foot on the gas, makes a show of peeling out because he knows his old self used to do that. He wants this to feel as familiar as possible to Sam. He knows now exactly how to play the part of the man he used to be.

The Memory Lane Motel is less than ten miles down the road, just past the Damascus city limits. Dean picks the lock on room 111 in record time, checks the room. Two queen-sized beds and a kitchenette. Dean hauls Sam out of the car and into the room, slamming the door behind them with his body as Sam pushes him against the door and kisses him.

They tear at each other’s clothes, getting everything off and dropped on the floor before either brother changes his mind. They keep their mouths on each other as much as possible, breathing each other’s air, gasping.

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Sam moans as he clutches Dean’s hair, his shoulders, his back.

“Yeah, Sammy. Yeah. Okay. Okay.” Dean doesn’t try to say the right thing. He doesn’t dare. He’s operating on sheer instinct, letting muscle memory take over so he doesn’t fuck this up.

Sam clings, buries his face in Dean’s neck, big body heaving with emotion.

Dean pushes, walking them backwards until they hit the first bed. They tumble awkwardly, legs and arms entwined, Dean on top. He shoves Sam’s legs apart, pins his wrists to the mattress, positions himself on top of Sam, and ruts against him .

Sam throws his head back and keens, soft lips parted, hair and limbs splayed. He’s unbearably beautiful, and Dean has to grab his own dick with one hand to keep from coming at the mere sight, squeezing the base as he sucks in a gasp.

“Fuck, Sam. Fuck.”

Sam spreads his legs wider, lifts up off the mattress so Dean can slip into Sam’s crack, behind his balls. The offer is explicit, dirty. Sam’s dick is already hard again, and Dean’s head spins..

Later he’s not sure how he managed to find a bottle of lotion that hadn’t completely dried up. But somehow he slicks up his fingers, pushes them into Sam, opens him up. Then he manages to slick up his own dick and push into Sam, steady and relentless, the way Sam likes it.

Dean fucks into Sam like he owns him, following Sam’s pleas and moans, his little choked-off gasps. It’s what he can do, read Sam like a book. It’s what Dean’s always known how to do.

Right now, Sam needs his brother inside him, needs to feel that his brother has finally come home to him, and Dean’s damned if he’ll refuse Sam anything he needs, ever again.

“Touch yourself,” Dean orders, and Sam does. He jacks himself fast and steady, setting a pace that Dean struggles to keep up with. Sweat slides down his temples, makes his eyes sting.

When Sam finally comes, Dean loses it, too. The sight of Sam coming because Dean’s giving him this is too much. He comes and comes and comes, emptying deep inside Sam, flashbacks in his head, all the times they’ve done this before, exploding inside his brain like so many fireworks.

Brain farts, his brain provides helpfully. He’s having little strokes.

He collapses on top of Sam without apology, without consideration for how heavy he is until Sam turns them both onto their sides, still joined and sticky as all hell.

Sam kisses his hairline, his temple, his cheek.

Dean falls asleep with his face pressed to Sam’s collarbone, the salty taste of Sam’s sweat on his tongue.

//**//**//

In the morning they fuck again, more leisurely this time, if no less intense. Dean takes the time to map out Sam’s body with his mouth and hands and eyes, struggling with the emotional overload of more flashbacks.

It’s a first time, and it’s not.

Sam smiles knowingly and cups Dean’s face, turning it up so Dean blinks at him, waits.

“It’s okay, Dean,” he says, soft. “We’ll do this again, I promise. I’m not going to hold out on you again.”

“Then why...?” Dean hesitates. He doesn’t know how to ask.

Sam sighs, lets his hand slide down Dean’s neck to his chest, leaving it over Dean’s heart. 

“I just wanted to be sure you weren’t so impaired that you couldn’t really give consent,” Sam says.

Dean thinks about this for a minute. He frowns. “Wait. So you’re saying you wouldn’t put out because - you were worried you’d be taking advantage of me?”

“Maybe?” Sam shrugs. “Those first few days, Dean. You were pretty helpless.”

“Saved your ass that first night,” Dean huffs, indignant.

“Yeah.” Sam’s soft smile makes Dean’s dick twitch. “You did.”

Dean lets his fingers trail down Sam’s arm. “So this thing between us,” he says, hesitant. “It must have started when you were still a kid?”

Sam’s eyes go sad for a second, and Dean’s afraid he’s blown it, reminding Sam that he’s still not really Sam’s Dean. He still doesn’t remember much.

Then Sam nods. “The summer I turned 18,” he says. “It would have started sooner, if I’d had my way, but you wouldn’t let me. You wanted me to have a normal upbringing.”

“Like hunting monsters is a normal way to grow up.” Dean smirks.

“It had its moments.” Sam shrugs. “Until it didn’t.”

“Dad and I left you alone a lot,” Dean suggests.

“You left me behind to do research,” Sam corrects. “And to stay in school. Although Dad didn’t care so much if I stayed in school, you always did. You made sure I got into college.”

“I must’ve hated those years you were away in California.” Dean shakes his head. “I can’t imagine it.”

“I think you probably checked in on me from time to time,” Sam says. “I could feel your eyes on me sometimes, but when I looked over, nobody was there. I never called you out on it, but now I’m pretty sure you were stalking me, making sure I was safe.”

“That sounds like me, all right.” Dean smirks. “Overprotective big brother.”

Sam lifts his multi-colored eyes to Dean, gazes long and intently into Dean’s eyes.

“You’re really you again,” he says. His eyes film over, and his cheeks flush pink.

Dean could lie. He could agree that his memories are back, or that he understands more about their history than what he learned from those books or what Sam’s told him.

He’s got a feeling there’s a lot Sam hasn’t told him. He’s got a feeling Sam’s suffered in ways Dean never wants to think about.

But it’s not fair to Sam to let him think Dean really relates to all that pain. Maybe he does, somewhere down deep that he can’t access because he’s too damaged by Michael. Maybe over time he’ll even recover the memories of that other life.

His chest aches with the need to give Sam what he wants, to return his brother to him, to make everything right again. He wants so badly to be the man he used to be, for Sam. He would be willing to pretend for the rest of his life, if it made Sam happy. Part of him thinks he could do that. With Sam’s faith in him, he could be anybody. Do anything.

“You know, I think I used to be really good at burying all the bad things that happened to us,” he says. “I was pretty good at pretending it never happened.”

“Not so good.” Sam huffs out a breath. “I could always tell when you were really hurting.”

“Can you tell now?”

Sam sucks in a breath, stares another long moment, until his eyes brim with tears. Then he blinks, ducks his head, and nods.

“I won’t lie to you, Sam. Except for some seriously confusing flashes of memory, I don’t really remember anything. Maybe I never will.”

Sam says nothing for a moment, and Dean feels his anxiety rise. Sam’s gonna leave him. Sam’s gonna bail. That’s what he always does.

Sam’s gonna leave because Dean deserves it.

“So you’re telling me you don’t remember Clint Eastwood?”

It’s so out of the blue, Sam’s question, but Dean’s response is immediate.

“Hell yes, I remember Clint Eastwood,” he says indignantly. “I remember every goddamn Dirty Harry movie ever made. Clyde, too. What’s your point, Sam?”

Sam lifts his eyes to Dean, and Dean’s lost because Sam’s smirking. Sam’s goddamn younger-brother smirk is all over his perfect, smug face.

“My point is my point,” Sam answers, quiet and smooth as can be, and Dean should be furious. He should be worse than indignant. He’s being made fun of. He’s the butt of some joke that makes Sam grin like that, and he should punch that smirk right off his damn face.

Sam’s beautiful, grinning face hovers over him, and it strikes Dean that Sam’s happy. He’s found something he’s been looking for.

“I remember David Hasselhoff,” Dean growls as he pushes Sam away half-heartedly. “Chuck Norris, too, and his stupid TV show still sucks.”

“My point is, your memory works well enough,” Sam says, and now he’s chuckling. Dean slaps his chest as Sam looms over him again, so Sam grabs his wrists, pins Dean’s body to the bed. “Whatever you don’t remember, you fill in with instinct. You’re you, that’s my point.”

Dean struggles for a moment, then gives up, panting. “I’ll show you me, bitch,” he growls, glaring up at Sam, defiance masking his excitement, his sheer pleasure at making Sam so happy.

Sam huffs out a soft laugh. “I’m counting on it, jerk,” he breathes, leaning down for a kiss.

Dean turns his face away, so Sam kisses his jaw, dips his tongue into the sensitive hollow below his ear.

Dean bucks up, instantly hard again. He gasps as Sam takes his earlobe between his teeth and grunts with the effort to hold him down. Dean wraps a leg around Sam’s waist, getting some friction for his dick against Sam’s hip. Sam’s dick presses against his belly.

Sam still wants him, broken and messed-up as he is. Dean may never be the brother Sam remembers, the man who shared a lifetime of memories and tragedies, the partner who truly understands everything Sam’s been through because he’s been through it, too.

But Sam still wants him. For now, that’s enough.

//**//**//

It takes them two more days to get back to the bunker, driving all day, holing up in a house or motel to ride out the night.

They never find the farmhouse where they stayed three days in a rainstorm, the place where Dean recovered enough of himself to give Sam some faith. The place where Sam learned to believe again.

Back at the bunker, Dean finds his old journals. He finds their dad’s journal. He reads about things he can’t remember. Fragments of memory keep bursting into his mind. He sees faces sometimes. Cas, Jack, their mom after she came back to them, their dad.

After a particularly vivid dream of John Winchester, of all four of them gathered at the dinner table for a meal here in the bunker, he wakes with tears on his cheeks.

“Did that really happen?” he asks Sam the next morning, as they’re cleaning up after breakfast.

Sam nods. “Yeah.”

Dean shakes his head. “Our lives are weird, man,” he mutters.

Sam takes the dish Dean just washed and dries it. “Definitely.”

But it’s not terrible, Dean decides. As the days turn into weeks and the nights get longer, Dean decides it’s not the worst fate, living out their lives here in this bunker, after the end of the world.

They use Sam’s magic gas to go on frequent foraging missions, mostly for food, but also because Sam never gives up hope that somebody else survived. Somewhere in the world, there must be other survivors.

Sam spends hours working on the bunker’s ham radio, sending out messages on every frequency. Once in a while he gets an automated response, but after a few days it dies, presumably because the batteries died in the radio where the signal originated.

By midwinter, Sam gives up.

Sam never gives up completely on anything, but Dean manages to convince him to pull back a little, to wait for spring when they can get out for longer drives again. Sam relegates his former obsession to a daily routine, checking the radio once or twice for a few minutes before going on to other things.

When the sad look returns to Sam’s face, Dean does his best to distract Sam with a blowjob or an old movie. The bunker’s library is full of movies, all rendered digitally and catalogued meticulously by the bunker’s obsessive in-house librarian, aka Sam Winchester. It makes Dean smile when he finds all the old Clint Eastwood movies, even the ones with Clyde the orangutan. He makes Sam watch _Every Which Way But Loose_ just to see his eyes roll, just to see that little exasperated head-shake as he gives in to the corny slapstick humor with a long-suffering sigh.

Once in a while, Dean catches Sam watching him. It’s usually when he’s doing something routine, cleaning his guns or watching a western or ironing Sam’s shirts. Sometimes Sam follows Dean into the garage. He leans on one of the other cars while Dean works, sipping a whiskey, and watches.

Dean knows Sam’s looking for his brother. Dean knows he’s seeing his brother in those moments, but Dean never calls him on it. Sam’s grief is his own, not something Dean can share. He can wish he remembered their life together, growing up together, suffering at the hands of Lucifer and Michael and all those sons-of-bitches together, surviving all of it, together.

But he can’t. Bits and pieces just don’t make up a whole. He’s broken, his mind fragmented and full of gaping holes, just like Michael had promised he would be.

Dean has a dream one night. In it he and Cas are visiting a man in a hospital. The man sits in a wheelchair and stares vacantly at a wall. In the dream, Dean knows the man is the former vessel of the archangel Raphael. He remembers Cas. He’s old Dean in the dream, with all his memories.

_“So is this what I'm looking at if Michael jumps in my bones?” Dean asks._

_“No, not at all,” Castiel answers. “Michael is much more powerful. It'll be far worse for you.”_

Dean wakes from that dream breathing hard, but at least he isn’t screaming. The Michael nightmares are the worst. He can never remember them, which is a blessing, but Dean knows they’re about his time as Michael’s vessel.

“What do you remember about being possessed by Lucifer?” he asks Sam one night after some particularly energetic sex.

“Everything,” Sam answers, clenching his jaw.

Damn.

“I wish I could make you forget,” Dean says.

“_I_ don’t,” Sam says, shaking his head a little. “But I’m glad you don’t remember being possessed by Michael. I really am, Dean. I hope you never do.”

“You’re stronger than I am,” Dean says. “My brain doesn’t let me remember. I couldn’t function if I did. I almost stopped functioning as it is.”

“But you didn’t,” Sam reminds him. “You survived. You’re better than you were that day I found you. You’ll get better still.”

“You think so?”

Sam sighs. He pulls Dean into his arms and kisses the top of his head. “I know so,” he answers softly.

Dean figures that’s how it’s always been. Sam believes in him, and Sam’s faith keeps Dean going.

Sam’s faith gives Dean hope.

They’ll plant a garden in the spring, grow fresh vegetables and fruit for themselves so they don’t have to eat out of cans all the time.

They’ll take drives together, just like they used to, only this time they’ll be on a quest to find survivors and food instead of monsters. Maybe they’ll take up fishing, since fish seem to have survived. They have yet to find another living creature that doesn’t hatch from an egg, but at least some eggs are edible, according to Sam.

They’ll make a life for themselves, here after the end of the world.

Maybe they’ll even make it to the ocean. Dean thinks he’d like to see the ocean. He’d like to walk on a sandy beach with Sam, watch the sun set over the water, see the stars come out.

Of course, they’ll have to find a way to keep the ghost zombies at bay, but Dean has faith. They’ll figure it out.

They always do.


End file.
